Lives first, emotions later. Her father’s mantra droned in her head. Slowly, she slid into the remainder of her cloak and fastened the collar. Octavia Randolf’s pregnancy ranked second to a compound fracture. An exposed bone could bring on severe illness, perhaps even fatal sickness. If Rebecca turned away from the child, she would never sleep tonight.
“Very well, Fortescue,” she conceded quietly. “Give me a moment, and I will come with you.”
His worried expression cleared. Relief shone in his dark eyes. “Oh, thank you.”
Nodding, Rebecca eased open her son’s bedroom door and slipped inside. Thomas sat on the floor, a game of marbles spread out before him. He glanced up with a grin. “Look, Mother, I am winning!”
Few things could shed the troubles that plagued Rebecca’s waking hours like her son’s merry demeanor. She yielded to her first genuine chuckle all day. “Just be certain you don’t cheat.”
His gaze skipped over her. “Are you leaving?”
She bent to press a kiss to his cheek. Straightening, she drew her fingers through his coal-black hair. “Yes. Your father has summoned me.”
His brows furrowed for an instant before he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his large white shooter. “Oh.”
They had talked about this; she’d warned him sooner or later Andrew would require medical services. Thomas displayed the same disinterest now as he did then. But the flat tone to his voice sparked fury through Rebecca all over again. Andrew had run away to Sussex with his respectable bride, not one damn given to the destruction he caused.
She rumpled Thomas’s hair again. “I will return in time for supper.”
“All right. Shall I bring in more logs for the stove?”
“If you can manage.”
He puffed up his six-year-old shoulders and squared his chin. “I can manage.”
“Very well, Thomas. I will put the sign out. Don’t answer the door.” With winter on them now, she worried each time she had to leave that someone might attempt to take her supplies, and Thomas would end up somehow harmed.
“Yes, Mother,” he answered absently, his attention back on the game.
Rebecca let herself out of his room and grabbed her father’s worn traveling bag off a wooden chair. “Let us go, Fortescue. I wish to have this completed quickly.” Before her heart could remember Andrew’s words of love and how glorious it felt to believe them.
Chapter Two
An all too familiar scent engulfed Rebecca’s senses as the Sharrington carriage jaunted down the road. Spice, rich earthy amber, and a touch of something that was uniquely Andrew. Oh, how she had tried to forget. Sometimes she had thought she would go mad from the effort. Now, each bump, each jostle, flashed memories she longed to bury. Andrew lifting her hand to his soft lips. Andrew’s mouth settling over hers, warm and gentle. The feel of his hands on her body, the burn of passion in his green eyes.
I have only ever wanted you, Rebecca. Say you will have me, and I will forfeit everything for an eternity of you.
She squeezed her eyes shut to block the onslaught of emotion. In the end, it was not Andrew who forfeited anything. Come morning, he was gone. Two months later, he married Georgina Daventry, and with his father still adamantly holding onto the duchy here, Andrew assumed the responsibilities as earl of a lesser property in Sussex. Rebecca had believed his pretty words. She should have known better.
Swallowing, she summoned her anger. Thank goodness Fortescue was driving the carriage and could not witness the shaking of her hands. Though that fact alone puzzled her. The old valet should be tucked inside Sharrington Manor. Where was Andrew’s driver? Lord knew he could certainly afford one.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the stone house that had always been so majestic. The masonry on the steps was pristine white marble, and two intricately carved horse heads framed the ornate stairs. So regal, so suitable for the entertaining Andrew’s wife would surely engage in. Though she would have to replenish the staff—Mr. Landess’ overbearing ways had run most of Andrew’s servants off. What would his wife be like? Elegant, of course. Her hands probably were as smooth as satin.
Rebecca glanced down at her own. Calluses roughened her palms. They were leaner than they should be. Veins protruded across the back, and her skin was dry from constant cleansing. She would never be elegant. Educated, yes—she possessed the best of her father’s education; he had seen to every painstaking night of lessons. But she inherited her mother’s penchant for direct honesty, which had dissuaded what suitors she might have entertained before Thomas’s birth ruined her completely.
Annoyed, she reached for the carriage door, unwilling to wait on Fortescue’s slow approach. Best to have this over with quickly.
She stepped down onto the bottommost step, declining Fortescue’s offered aid. The less she accepted from Sharrington—in any fashion—the better. “Where is she?”
“Upstairs, in His Grace’s room.”
Wonderful. Precisely what Rebecca most wanted to witness. Not just the proof of Andrew’s love for another woman in his daughter, but their intertwined belongings surrounding her. Perhaps the very bed they slept in each night. Andrew was a passionate man; he would not subscribe to the fashion of separate bedrooms.
She ground her teeth together. He is the devil. May he burn as well.
Determined, she marched into the manor and up the stairs. Fortescue dragged along behind her, his steps slow and purposeful, yet with the dignity she remembered. He had been old for as long as she could recall. He must be ancient now.
The soft sound of crying drifted through a partly-open door at the top of the wide staircase. Rebecca’s annoyance cracked, and empathy tugged at her heart. Poor little dear. Thomas had broken his own arm at four—he had howled like he’d cut off his leg. She took a deep breath, braced for the inevitable family scene beyond, and pushed open the door.
Andrew sat in a chair beside the four-poster bed, holding the hand of a beautiful little girl. His head snapped up at the creaking of the door, and devastating green eyes locked on Rebecca.
Her breath caught. Her heart simply failed to beat. She couldn’t breathe, and the hollowing of her belly was as keen and sharp as if someone reached beneath her skin and slowly turned her inside out.
Andrew.
“Rebecca.” Her name whispered off his lips as he rose from the chair. He took a step toward her, one hand outstretched as if he intended to clasp her by the fingers, draw her in, and kiss her cheek as was his usual manner.
No! He destroyed everything. How dare he act as if nothing had changed?
She shook off the momentary spell and snatched at her resolve. Determined, she side-stepped his grasp. “Your Grace.” With a deferential nod, she approached the bed, shedding her cloak as she walked. She tossed the garment on the chair Andrew had occupied. Where was his wife? Despite that she didn’t care to meet the woman, she couldn’t curb her curiosity. What kind of woman had earned the right to his heart?
Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment, drew another long, even breath, and looked at the child on the bed. Wide blue eyes stared out from a porcelain face that was so lovely she could have passed for a living doll. Her blond curls were mussed and shone like the sun had kissed each strand. Her chin quivered as she blinked to keep tears at bay. She must mirror her mother; she didn’t resemble Andrew at all. In fact, his dark hair and olive-toned skin made it hard to see any family resemblance, save for the tiny cleft in the little girl’s chin.
Her gaze strayed to the child’s arm and down to her fingers. She didn’t need to manipulate the limb to understand the nature of the break. But she carefully examined the gash near the bend in her elbow. One eyebrow arched when no protrusion of bone met her fingertips. In fact, the cut would only require two stitches. “Fortescue told me the bone broke through—that is no compound fracture.”
Andrew smoothed his hand over the little girl’s curls affectionately. “Yes, I know. There was a piece of shale in her arm.”
The little girl swallowed, glanced apprehensively at her father, then tried for a timid smile. “Alice.”
“Alice.” Smiling, Rebecca gingerly patted her uninjured hand. “It’s a lovely name. Were you trying to fly?”
A giggle escaped, faint but laughter all the same. “No. Girls can’t fly.”
“So they say.” With a squeeze to Alice’s fingers, Rebecca lowered her voice conspiratorially. “They say girls can’t do lots of thing. I think they are full of rubbish.”
Alice giggled again, stronger this time.
Rebecca set her bag on her lap. Her skin prickled as Andrew shifted. His familiar cologne tickled her nose, and she willed her voice not to tremble. “They also say girls aren’t brave, Alice. Can you imagine that? I bet you’re very brave—to try and fly, you must be.”
“Aside from a certain woman I know, Alice is the bravest girl in all the world.” Andrew smoothed a hand over his daughter’s forehead. His gaze fell pointedly on Rebecca, his smile as warm and genuine as it ever had been.
Rebecca’s heart stuttered. She cleared her throat, cut her gaze back to Alice.
“Alice, Rebecca used to take her horse over the ravine behind the house with her eyes closed and her arms out to the side. I think she believed she could fly too.” Andrew let out a low chuckle. “And she beat me to the top of that oak, every time.”
Reminiscing wasn’t on Rebecca’s list of things to do. Uncomfortable with the talk of happier, carefree times, she steered the banter back to her purpose. “We’re going to fix your arm now. It won’t take very long.”
“Will it hurt, Miss Rebecca?”
“Just Rebecca.” She hesitated, then gave a brief nod. “Yes, I’m afraid it will hurt. But I will make you a deal, Alice.” She reached inside her bag and pulled out the honey-colored bear Mrs. Clemsley had made the day before. She made certain Rebecca always had one on hand for particularly nervous children. Rebecca set the bear on Alice’s chest. “If you can be very brave now, I will give you Mr. Fuzzwinkle.”
“All right.” Her smile dimming, Alice turned those fathomless blue eyes on Rebecca. With laughter no longer lighting them, they reflected a strange sadness that Rebecca had only witnessed in the poorest of the poor. What had happened to this lovely little girl?
Careful not to jostle her injured arm, Alice reached for the bear. “May I hold him?”
“Of course.” Rebecca passed Alice the bear, then braved looking at Andrew. Her heart stuttered once more, but it had always done so. More quietly, she addressed him. “I will need your help.”
For an instant, panic crossed his face. His features washed white, his gaze widened by several degrees. The look was so uncharacteristic Rebecca had to choke back a laugh. But with his next blink, he was the picture of strength, and he inclined his head in agreement.
“Alice, I want you to sip on this.” Rebecca reached in and retrieved a tincture from her bag. She offered the dark glass bottle to her patient. “Do you like licorice?”
Alice wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Not so much.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” Rebecca deposited the bottle back inside her bag, exchanging it for another, much larger one, which she passed to Alice as well. “How about strawberry?” It was her own unique concoction, and one she had discovered, albeit accidentally, when she’d dropped a jar of jam on her table and shattered it, along with a bottle of laudanum. In the process of cleaning up the sticky mess, she’d cut her finger and reflexively popped the digit into her mouth.
“I like strawberries.” Much more enthusiastic, Alice took a deep gulp of the concoction.
When she went for a second, Andrew took the bottle from her hands. “I think that’s enough, Alice.”
Rebecca chuckled. “The laudanum is very thin. She could drink the whole thing if she wished.”
Bright and expectant, Alice looked to her father.
Andrew glanced between them both, hesitant.
“Truly, it will only relax her,” Rebecca reassured.
With a slight frown, he passed the bottle back to Alice, who promptly downed the contents. She licked her lips and grinned. “Mum would like it, Daddy.”
Mum. Yes, where was the Duchess of Sharrington? Rebecca lifted her head to glance around the room. In the same instant, Andrew leaned over Alice to adjust the quilt. Rebecca’s stare fastened on the wide black crepe band around his upper arm. She managed to stifle a gasp, but her lips parted anyway. He wore the mark of mourning. How long had she been gone? Rebecca’s brows furrowed. Alice didn’t wear the same dark clothes. At least six months then.
Her heart twisted sharply. The urge to comfort, to express condolences, to balm whatever heartache he might endure rose like a swell on a calm shore. As it crashed over her, a tiny spark of hope lighted in its wake. Perhaps they could finally…
No. Don’t be foolish. He never really wanted you.
Even if he had, he’d proven what divided them was too strong to overcome.
Rebecca hastily stuffed the empty bottle back into her medicine bag and set it on the floor. She rose on unsteady legs. With barely a glance in his direction, she murmured, “I need to speak with you.”
Andrew followed her into the hall and pulled the door shut behind them. A smile broke across his face. “It’s good to see you, Rebecca.”
She nodded. “I cannot say the same, Andrew.”
Blinking, he drew back as if she’d slapped his face. Strange. He could not expect a warm welcome after the way he’d bolted off to London, mere hours after he’d claimed her innocence. Rebecca ignored his offended expression. “I must set the bone and the cut needs to be cleansed and stitched.”
“Yes, I know. I already cleaned the gash.”
“Good.” Her gaze strayed to the closed door. “Despite the medicine, it will still hurt. You will have to hold her.”
He, too, glanced in the same direction. His broad shoulders rose, then fell heavily with a sigh. When he looked back at Rebecca, a deep frown marred his handsome brow and worry etched into the corners of his eyes. “She will recover all right, won’t she?”
“She might suffer a fever for a few days, but in a handful of weeks she will be back to her normal self. How old is she?”
“Five.”
Another lance stabbed through Rebecca’s heart. He had not even waited a year…
Never mind all that. She was here for another purpose. She pushed open the door and returned to Alice’s bedside. Eyelids drooping, Alice gave her a lazy smile. Slowly, her focus tracked to her father. “Daddy…I’m so…sleepy.”
Dark and malevolent, Andrew’s gaze snapped to Rebecca. “I thought you said the laudanum was thin?”
This time she could not contain her amusement. She let out a soft laugh. “It is, Andrew. You’re seeing the effects of the strawberry wine I thinned it with. It’s the only way I can preserve the flavor.” She tucked a wide curl out of Alice’s face. “Take her shoulders now. Alice, remember what I said—I need you to be very brave.”
“Yes…Miss Becca.”
Becca. Hm. Rebecca smiled to herself. Andrew’s father used to call her such. Enjoying the brief warmth behind her ribcage, she carefully took hold of Alice’s arm.
It required only a few minutes to reposition the bone, but that brief time took an eternity to pass. Andrew remained stoic through Alice’s initial cries. But when the broken ends grated together and she let out a blood-curdling scream, forcing him to hold her much more firmly, his face quite literally turned green. For a moment, Rebecca had sworn she would have to treat them both before she left. Alice and her broken bone, followed by Andrew’s fainting spell.
Somehow, she suspected he would be mortified if anyone discovered how easily Alice commanded his affections. On the other hand, that a fat
her showed such little hesitation about those very same affections touched Rebecca on some deeper level.
When it was finished, and Rebecca had tightly bound the bones together with a heavy wrap, she packed her bag. Their short time together only made it more difficult to resist the naive longing that lived in her heart. She dared not linger. Besides, Octavia Randolf still waited, and Thomas needed his supper.
“You’re leaving so soon?” Andrew asked as she fastened the bag’s closures.
She blinked. “Why would I not? I’ve done what I came here to do, she is sleeping, and I have other patients to see.” With more force than necessary, she yanked her cloak off the chair.
“I thought…” His gaze searched her face, inquisitive and puzzled. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was oblivious to the past they shared. He gave a distracted shake of his head, frowned deeply, and looked her in the eye. “Where is the Rebecca who used to guard my confidences and ply me with incessant questions? You have not once asked what is on my mind since you arrived.”
Nor would she. She forced down a caustic remark and merely headed for the door. “It should not surprise you, Andrew, that I no longer care to hear your thoughts.” She pulled the heavy wood barrier open. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” With a brief dip of her knees, she stepped into the hall and hurried for the stairs.
“Rebecca!” he shouted behind her.
Do not stop. Do not turn around. If she did, the thin veneer of control she held onto would crack. She would throw herself into his arms, bury her cheek against his fine linen shirt, and tell him how very much she missed him.
An act only a besotted fool would engage in.
“Rebecca, wait!” His feet pounded down the stairs behind her.
“No. I can’t. I have a patient to see.” She thrust the flat of her palm against the front entry and strode onto the steps. To her dismay, his carriage was nowhere in sight.
“Rebecca.” Strong fingers wrapped around her elbow. Gentle pressure turned her around. She tipped her chin up and became lost in his troubled gaze. Flecks of gold in his green eyes drew her in deeper, sucked her into the memories of the friend she had grown up with, the boy she had admired, and the man she had given everything to.
An Eternity of You Page 2